


Cadence

by Nestra



Series: Counterpoint [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-08
Updated: 2006-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A progression of chords moving to a harmonic close, point of rest, or sense of resolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cadence

**Author's Note:**

> When I offered to write Resonant something for her birthday, she asked for a story set in my Atlantis AU Counterpoint. I find myself very attached to this version of these characters, so I was thrilled to write this for her. I got into my first slash fandom right before Resonant started writing, a particularly lucky bit of timing on my part. I admire her writing greatly, and ~~ devouring everything she writes~~ watching her has taught me a lot about what I want my own writing to be. Happy birthday, Resonant!
> 
> Thanks to shrift and grit kitty for beta.

John ripped open the padded envelope and pulled out the score inside, opening it to the title page. Looked good, everything looked good, except... "Who is Arthur Pitts?"

"Did the publisher finally send over the conductor's score? Let me see." Rodney yanked the score away and began flipping through the pages. "They better have corrected that misprint in the last movement."

"I went over it with them three times," John said. "They probably got it." He tossed the rest of the mail on the dining room table, still covered with dinner dishes.

"Right, and everything's fine until the first violins start playing in the wrong key, and I get accused of being the poor man's Stravinsky."

What would be nervousness in most other people manifested as irritability in Rodney. Of course, most emotions manifested as irritability in Rodney, but John knew how much was riding on the concert in Chicago next month. A glossy copy of the program magazine sat on the table under the mail, advertising the premiere of "Symphony No.1, Opus 12, by Rodney McKay." Rodney had dubbed it "The Waveform Symphony", arguing that he wasn't going to wait for some critic to slap an inane title on his greatest work to date. ("Next thing you know, someone's saying it reminds them of pebbles plinking in a brook, and then you're forever branded as the third-rate guy who wrote 'The Pebble Symphony.' No, thank you.")

"Rodney?"

"What?" Rodney peered at him over the edge of the score.

"Arthur Pitts?"

"Ah," Rodney said. "My senior year composition teacher."

John blinked and felt his forehead crease in a frown. "You dedicated a piece to the teacher who told you you'd never be worth anything?"

"Of course. Living well is the best revenge, but rubbing someone's face in your staggering accomplishments comes a close second."

"You've never dedicated anything to me," John said, grabbing the dishes from the table. When Rodney had cut the maid service to once a week, John had experimented with letting the dishes pile up, just to see if Rodney would deal with them. They'd made it four days before the stack had toppled over.

Rodney followed him into the kitchen, still paging through the score. "You get to sleep with me. I would think that was reward enough."

Rodney had dedicated a piece to a man he hated, but not to John, not even a stupid little sonata. John was the one who made sure there were never any oranges in the gift baskets left in Rodney's dressing room. John was the one who coordinated all of the damn bookings, who soothed the hotel staff that Rodney insulted, who remembered to pack Rodney's dress socks even though Rodney forgot every damn time.

"Yeah, sure," John muttered. "I'm the luckiest guy on the planet."

***

Rodney, unless forced into a regular schedule, was an inveterate night owl. When he climbed into bed at two A.M., John considered pretending that he was asleep, but he'd been lying awake, thinking about Arthur Pitts, trying to decide if what Rodney had done was healthy or just vindictive.

Rodney nudged him. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah." He rolled over to face Rodney, who was lying on his side, head propped on his hand. His eyes were a hint of white in the darkness of the room, his mouth an uneven line.

"I wrote a symphony."

"I noticed," John said. "The months of banging and cursing were kind of a clue."

"This is huge." Rodney dropped his head down to the pillow and flopped onto his back.

John slipped his hand under the arm of Rodney's t-shirt and squeezed. "They'll love it."

"They'd better, or next time, I'll take my world premiere to Boston or D.C. Leonard Slatkin would love me."

John began stroking Rodney's arm, down to the wrist, back up to the shoulder. Rodney sighed and leaned into the touch.

"That feels good," he murmured. "The symphony, though...I started writing it just to prove that I had it in me. Chamber music, piano sonatas, those are one thing, but a symphony. If I could do that, and I knew I could, I could do anything. And then I could rub it in the faces of everyone who ever doubted me."

He reached over and took John's hand, threading their fingers together. His fingertips, callused from hours at the piano, brushed against John's palm and made him shiver, like they always did.

"And then it just..." he waved their combined hands, almost as if he were conducting an imaginary orchestra, "...took over. I forgot that music is always its own reward."

"Like virtue," John said.

"Really? I'm afraid I wouldn't know anything about that," he said, voice as dark as the bedroom, and then their hands were on John's soft cock, which filled under Rodney's careful touch. He pushed up, rubbing himself into their hands, the thin fabric of his boxers shifting and bunching until he freed his hand from Rodney's grasp and eased them down.

No one knew John like Rodney did, how a bite on his neck would make him shudder, how a few whispered words did as much to push him towards orgasm as the wicked brush of Rodney's thumb right under the head of his cock. He grabbed Rodney by the back of his neck and pulled him up into a kiss, gasping around Rodney's tongue as Rodney slipped his fingers down and began rubbing right under his balls. He didn't care so much about Arthur Pitts any more, not if Rodney just kept touching him like that.

"Want me to blow you?" Rodney asked, lips pressed against John's cheek.

John laughed shakily. "Are you kidding?"

Rodney pulled off his t-shirt and boxers and tossed them on the floor, then shifted down the bed and wedged John's legs apart with his shoulders. John felt the wet line of his tongue, licking across the same spot his fingers had been rubbing. He closed his eyes and let Rodney push him higher, wind him tighter, until Rodney took the top half of his cock into his mouth and sucked.

Rodney had blown him one time right before he went on stage, kneeling on a copy of the concert program so he wouldn't get his tuxedo dirty. John had kept his eyes on the dressing room door the entire time; Rodney hadn't looked over once.

His breath was loud in his ears, but the sounds Rodney was making drifted up from the foot of the bed, driving him nuts -- little sighs, hums, the wet drag of Rodney's lips. He stroked Rodney's hair and traced the curve of his ear, and clenched his other hand into the sheets when Rodney took him in deep.

When Rodney eased a finger into him and pressed the flat of his tongue against his cock, John shuddered and came, climax rolling over and over him as Rodney kept fucking him gently.

"I want to --"

"Yeah," John managed, his chest hurting with how hard he was panting. He fumbled in the nightstand drawer and handed the lube to Rodney.

Rodney worked his cock into him with careful movements. By the time he was done, John felt lit up, aware of every place that Rodney's skin pressed against his. The backs of his knees, resting in the crook of Rodney's elbows, grew damp with sweat as Rodney thrust into him, harder each time. He could hardly move, pinned down by the weight of Rodney's body, but he spread his legs as far as he could, and Rodney groaned.

"John," he said, voice catching, "John, John..."

"Yeah, come on," and his legs slipped down around Rodney's hips as Rodney reached up and kissed him, slick and wet, cock jerking inside of him as he came. He collapsed in an awkward heap on top of John, an elbow digging into his ribs until John shoved weakly at him. He rolled over on his side, head resting on John's shoulder, nose pressed into the curve of his neck.

John pulled the sheet up over them both and brushed a kiss against Rodney's temple. "You better dedicate your next piece to me."

"You idiot," Rodney mumbled, his voice a sweet sound in John's ear. "They're all for you."


End file.
